


Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You

by apodiopsys



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was younger, Watson's father caught him and another boy kissing. His father was furious and tried to beat his homosexual out of him. It worked for the most part and Watson repressed all his feelings for men the best he could (he got married and moved away from the only man he actual loved (Holmes) and tried to live the life of a respectable gentleman). </p>
<p>Until years later, Holmes discovers the scars on Watson's body that were the byproduct of the beatings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You

**Author's Note:**

> written as a fill for the [Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9516.html) at LJ.
> 
> When it was written I had a cross of RitchieVerse (so RDJ and Jude Law) and Sherlock BBC in my head for this, but it's fairly nonspecific so really, any would do.

At fourteen, John barely knows what's going on with his body, let alone what he's doing with it. He's a mess the way all fourteen year old boys are; a dangerous cocktail of hormones and mood swings and painful, erratic spurts of growth. It starts as a game of football in his backyard with a mate, kicking the ball back and forth from either side of the garden, which leads to pushing and shoving and then wrestling on the floor the way that so many things ends these days. 

It's the littlest things that set him off - a glimpse of skin during P.E., being pinned to the ground during a fight, the sight of a long column of neck that's almost begging to be caressed. John pushes up against the body above him, intending to shove him off. His hands close around the lapels of the other boy's shirt, but instead of pushing him away he pulls him closer and their lips are moving against each other in an awkward slide. Mouth opening on a soft sigh, his fingers tighten and flex in the white fabric. 

He misses the footsteps completely, but then there's a figure blocking out the sun and pulling the other boy off of him by his shirt collar. "John Watson, what in the name of the good Lord do you think you're doing?" He stares up at his father, sees his friend standing behind him before giving him a frightened look and running in the opposite direction. 

John's father hauls him up to his feet, pulling so hard that he cries out in fear of his shoulder popping out of the socket. "The church doesn't approve of such... sodomy," his father tells him, the back of his hand connecting to John's cheek with a resounding smack. "And I thought that your mother and I had raised a good, Christian boy." He grips his arm, tight enough that in a days time John will have fingerprints bruised into his skin. 

"Father, please, I - I didn't. We weren't-" he gets another smack on the other cheek, so that he has twin, stinging spots of red. 

Fingers unbuckling his belt, John's father says all dangerous calm, "Boy, you're going to go into the shed and take off your shirt," and John knows that this is what it's like to be in the eye of a storm. He pales. "You're going to put your hands on the wall and think about what you've done, and once you have reflected on your sins I'm going to help get the devil out. 

After, John wipes his face and tells his father that he will not sin again. He stands tall with his head held high, eyes clear and glassy and blue with angry red lines crisscrossing his back.

&

Watson doesn't realizing what's happening until it's too late. After years of being careful, taking so many precautions to hide parts of himself until he barely knows what he's hiding anymore, a moment of haze clouding his thoughts and ringing in his ears doesn't allow his brain to catch up with him at the right pace. He's distantly aware of Sherlock pulling his shirt open with complete disregard to the buttons, and they go flying and roll around the floor and under different pieces of furniture.

He doesn't even stop at the undershirt, grabbing a pair of the scissors John uses to cut the string when he's done a set of stitches off his desk and using them to get a hole in the fabric. He pulls at the hole until it's getting bigger, until it tears and gives Holmes access to his skin. Pushing at the ruined pieces of fabric, he hears him muttering, "Bullet, find the wound, find the wound," and then sucking in a hard breath. 

John thinks distantly, _but nothing hurts,_ and then after that, _there's no blood._ Sherlock seems to have the same idea, but he's pulling the clothes of his upper body completely off as if to check. It's not until he feels Holmes' fingers touching his back, gently, oh so gently that he snaps back to himself, spine tightening and going rigid. The touch isn't what Watson expects, so much more careful and gentle than he thought Sherlock was capable of. 

"And what of Mary?" Holmes asks, so quietly that John almost misses the question. 

"I love her," he says softly. "I don't - and I can't-" Watson looks lost for a moment, scared. Sherlock is quick to smooth a comforting hand down his side. "I do love her."

The two men are quiet for a few moments; Holmes' hand rests, fingers splayed, on John's ribcage. His breath is fleeting, quick inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale that makes his diaphram expand and contract under Sherlock's touch. He is afraid to move, to lean back into him that way he so desperately wants or out of touching distance, because he isn't allowed this, hasn't done anything to deserve it. 

Tentatively, Sherlock leans forward. Watson can feel his breath, warm and wet on his skin, can feel the brush of his lips, dry and cracking. That's all it takes, and then he's twisting around so he can look him in the eye, because he needs to know, _why is Holmes doing this?_

The answer he receives is the one he wants, or maybe it isn't - John doesn't know. His instinct is to flee, when Holmes leans forwards to pass a kiss over the corner of his mouth; instead he turns his face, just a little, tiny increment, so that they kiss proper, the right way. 

Cupping his jaw with one hand, he runs his tongue along the seam of his lips and then licks into his mouth. John, nervous, doesn't know what to do with his hands. They flutter for a moment, rest on Sherlock's cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. 

Sherlock laughs. "Relax," he tells him. "You'll like this." Watson watches while he drops to his knees in front of him, coaxing his legs apart so that he can kneel in between them. Violinists fingers, deft, long and skinny, make quick work of his pants, and John can only tip his head back and gasp when those fingers ( _Sherlock's_ fingers) wrap around his cock. 

Enraptured by John, the way he slowly falls to pieces under his practiced hand, Holmes ducks down and licks a slow stripe up the the hard length, catching his eye before he takes the head into his mouth. He tongues at the slit, makes a pleased humming noise when John's hand slides into his hair, guiding him further down. 

It's obvious to him that this is not the first time Sherlock has done this, and a part of him wonders the circumstances of the others: was it for science, something he needed to experience to solve a case? He wonders if Holmes is actually enjoying this as much as he's making it sound, with enthusiastic whines in the back of his throat whenever Watson pushes him too hard or pulls on his hair. 

He slides a finger into his mouth alongside his cock, slips it back out again with a wet pop. Sherlock presses it in abruptly, right up to the first knuckle and then John jerks, comes without a warning in hot streaks down his throat. 

After, Holmes wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and John notices the fingers on his hand glistening. "Did you -?" he asks, eyes wide. 

"Yes, I did," Sherlock says. "I found it quite enjoyable." He touches his back, carefully, stroking his fingers over the scars. John goes still, trying not to turn away from the touch. His eyes are gentle, laughing. Caring. Fond. It isn't a look that Watson is used to getting from him, but it warms right down to his center.


End file.
